


Isabela and the Inquisition

by Razikale



Series: Alphas, Omegas, and Betas. Oh my! [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Established Relationship, F/F, Lesbian Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-03 19:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14003355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razikale/pseuds/Razikale
Summary: Isabela and Hawke have both come to the aid of the Inquisition. To clean up old messes, make a bit of coin and make sure Varric gets the story right this time. Saving the world is distracting, and helping Andraste's Chosen has them both traveling far and wide. But nothing can keep them apart for long.[Follows The Beginning and the End.]





	1. Home

Home was a rather slippery concept for Hawke. It was probably supposed to be the mansion in Kirkwall, seeing as she’d spent most of her adult life there. It was the family estate after all. Except by the time they moved in there wasn’t much of a family left, was there? Just her and mother in a huge house full of ghosts. Maker Above, she’d preferred the shack in lowtown simply for the noise of life filling its cramped walls.

 _Reminds me, I need to write Charade._ Hawke scolded herself for letting it go so long. With so little family left she tried harder to stay in touch. She needed to check that her cousin hadn’t killed Gamlen yet, and thank her very profusely for managing to be sane.

“Right! That’s three to me, Inky! You’re shite at this.” The only other Red Jenny that Hawke had ever met giggled maniacally from somewhere further back.

“This isn’t a game, Sera!” In any other voice that petulant objection would definitely qualify as whining. But it was the Inquisitor, a woman that managed to instill fear and admiration in every crowd through little more than her calm command. She almost certainly did not whine.

“Is when you keep trying to snatch it back, too slow!” Of course, Sera’s madness had a strange effect on everyone.  “What’s it anyway? Battle plans? Secret report? _Looove_ letters?”

Curiosity finally pulled Hawke to look back over her shoulder. Inquisitor Trevelyan was nearly falling out of her saddle, flailing at a folded paper that Sera held securely beyond her reach. Despite the flush on her cheeks and muttered threats there was an undeniable sparkle in the woman’s eyes, frustrated but delighting in something utterly frivolous.

“Poetry, has to be,” Dorian chimed in from further back, always ready for any game that put their beloved leader in a twist. “Look how she’s blushing. Probably something very wicked about our lovely Seeker and her many assets.”

“Ass tits?” Sera snorted at her own childish turn of phrase but managed to almost sound serious for a second, “Yeah, she’s not half bad that one. Scary as the business end of a dragon’s dick.” She gave an exaggerated shudder before grinning again, “But what a weapons rack on her!”

“Sera, I will get you your own barrel of ale to drown in if you promise to never say that again,” the Inquisitor groaned, internal horror momentarily distracting her from the stolen paper.

“Which part?” All at once the elf turned shrewd, a calculating look pinching her face.

Trevelyan hesitated, surprised by the sudden opportunity but it was only a blink before she latched on. “All of it,” she stated firmly, brooking no argument. Emboldened by Sera’s momentary reasonableness she pressed the advantage, “And you have to give me back my letter.”

“Deal.” Sera handed the paper back without a second thought. “Right, you all heard!” She shouted to the whole company, as if everyone wasn’t already listening. “Head to the tavern when we get back, Inky’s buying!”

A mottled chorus applauded that idea heartily, eager to wash away the taste of campfires and mud. Hawke felt a swell of nostalgia under her ribs, remembering when that same cheer had rallied her own friends after a hard adventure. If home was simply where one spent the most time, then hers had to be The Hanged Man. Everything you could want in a cozy abode: roaring hearth, plentiful whiskey, welcoming smiles and hands always ready to pinch any ass. Even the brawls felt like family around the holidays. To be fair, Hawke preferred both her bed and stew to have less rats, but it hadn’t really mattered then.

“That includes you, if you like.” Inquisitor Trevelyan’s voice arrived alongside Hawke, startling her out of reminiscences.

“Happy to hear it.” A quick reply was never far from Hawke’s tongue, no matter where her mind was drifting. “What exactly are we talking about?”

 “Drinks at the tavern,” Trevelyan clarified with a patient smile. “You should join us.”

“Seeing Sera get drunk again and go back to pestering Iron Bull about Qunari lesbians?” Hawke grinned at the recent memory. No one else had ever made the giant warrior blush like that. Varric still didn’t believe her. “It’s tempting,” she admitted. “But I think I need a bath more than anything. I can’t even tell who I smell like anymore.”

“Everyone,” Trevelyan answered with absolute certainty, deliberately sniffing herself and cringing. “We all smell like everyone rolled around on each other in horse sweat and ashes.”

“That’s when you know it’s a party.” A bubble of humor eased the tension between Hawke’s shoulders. The echo of long ago warmed her smile, remembering those same words shaped by another voice.

“And when we get home I get to smell like all of that, plus ale and whatever unholy poison Iron Bull keeps pouring. I should probably just get someone to vomit on me now and be done with it,” the Inquisitor grimaced, barely concealing the underlying smile.

“Kinky.” Hawke winked, both of them falling into the relief of laughter. Thank heaven the Maker had seen fit to choose a woman with a good sense of humor for this nugshit mess.

“Ah, it’ll be nice to be home.” The Inquisitor’s eyes drifted to the towers of Skyhold, rising above them and growing larger with each turn of the road.

Hawke looked up at the fortress peaking above the mountains, an imposing pile of stone that managed to combine the worst parts of a garrison, cathedral and surgery into one. The place made the hair on the back of her neck stand on edge, plucking at instincts that knew where blood was spilled and the Veil was thin. She’d been in more inviting sewers.

Hawke was about to say as much but caught her tongue at the last moment, seeing the way Trevelyan gazed at the looming stronghold. Her smile was absolutely naked in its affection, warm and eager. Lost children spying their parents didn’t look so happy as the Inquisitor catching sight of her home. Because it was, unmistakably, her home.

If Kirkwall were filled with gold and an army of eager lovers, Hawke still wouldn’t have been able to look at the city of her title with even a fraction of that love. Perplexed curiosity probed in the dusty spaces of her heart, searching for anyplace that drew her with such a sentimental attachment. Much like exploring the spot where a tooth used to be, there was nothing but a hollow with the slightest ache to hint that something was missing.

“Maker’s ass, we’ve been out here for too long,” Hawke sighed, annoyed with herself at such needlessly somber thoughts. What was it Varric was always saying? _Sod that shit, misery’s only good for making coin._ Then he’d slap her shoulder hard enough to make her fingers numb and drag her off to get drunk like any proper friend should.

Maybe she’d see what he was up to after she got the last three weeks of filth off her skin.

“I know,” Trevelyan agreed readily. “Any longer and I think Sera would actually start to make sense.”

“Heard that!” The offended cry from behind buzzed with threat as only someone with a flask full of bees could. Hawke and Trevelyan both spurred their horses to speed, tearing off for those last few miles and grateful for any excuse to hurry.

-           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

 Hawke was used to people looking at her strangely. The refugees and apostates that couldn’t believe someone wanted to help. Criminals and politicians that didn’t understand why she kept laughing when they threatened her. Never mind the Marcher nobles always watching, waiting for her do something terribly _Fereldan_ like use the wrong fork or pee on someone’s leg. So at first she didn’t notice the odd looks dogging her all the way from Skyhold’s main gate to the tower with her guest quarters.

She barely saw the first servant that scuttled past her, eyes darting only briefly in her direction and then deliberately hurrying on. The second one couldn’t even look up at her; head down as if trying to become invisible, an air of desperate nervousness that caught Hawke’s attention. She watched the third servant coming down the corridor, staring back over his shoulder so intently and for so long that he crashed into the Champion. He gathered himself off the floor, blushing and babbling apologies and panicking as if she’d caught him nicking the silver. Hawke reached out to make sure he was alright, but the poor man bolted away like he’d seen a demon and was gone before she could stop him.

All she’d asked was that they fill her bath. She didn’t even specify that it had to be warm! Was hygiene some sort of sin these days? It did seem increasingly common to link purity of the soul with filth on the skin. A natural assurance of abstinence, if nothing else. Why was it that the closer everyone got to the Maker, the further they got from soap?

Bless Andraste’s tits, they _did_ use hot water. Hawke sighed in relief when she stepped into her quarters and saw gentle steam rising from a huge bathing tub in front of the fire. Someone had even gone all Orlesian and added scented oils, a rich and spiced perfume filling the room. Hawke instinctively took a deep breath, letting the exotic fragrance roll over the back of her tongue, instantly unraveling into that scent’s warm embrace. It was familiar, but hard to detect with so many other awful smells still clinging to her skin.

Not Orlesian, Hawke was fairly certain as she shut the door and started across the room. Only to find herself suddenly grabbed and slammed against the wall. A fleeting glimpse of black and blue darted across her vision before the heat of a mouth caressed her ear, making her eyes roll to heaven with a violent shiver.

“About time you showed up,” that purr rolled over Hawke, impatience and threat and dripping seduction. “It’s not nice to keep a girl waiting.”

Isabela’s voice was all fangs, low notes of whispering menace and lovers breaking. Just like the hands pinning Hawke to the wall, a command wrapped around promises. It had been months since the Champion had seen her pirate, had felt the perfect fit of their bodies molded to each other even through armor. Soft lips and teeth teased the edge of Hawke’s ear, stoked the rapidly spreading fire in her veins.

What started as a stunned gasp in Hawke’s lungs swelled until it burst free; released in bubbling laughter, breathless and joyful. 

“Maker, Bela, what did you do to the servants?” She grinned, wrestling her hands loose to fill with familiar curves. Silky hair spilled through her fingers, a gentle grip tugging the infamous Raider back to meet her eyes. It was an instinct so deep in her bones that Hawke thought she was born with it, fated to need the sight of Isabela in her arms. Here, in the flesh, soft and deadly and intoxicating. 

“I might’ve surprised one or two,” Isabela admitted, sly amusement glittering out of her darkened gaze.

“The way you surprised me?” Hawke felt one brow climb high, awash with pity and envy for whichever of the lucky sods had gotten this same treatment. “They must’ve been awfully good looking for you to go mistaking them for me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabela scoffed, stretching languidly along Hawke’s frame to feel every inch of their bodies pressed together. She took one pale hand in her own, examining the contrast of their interwoven fingers for a long moment, gathering a few rare, honest words. “There’s absolutely no one like you, Hawke.”

Just something that simple and certain made Hawke’s heart skip. The Rivaini sailor had a gifted tongue, capable of seduction and blasphemy intertwined into words that would leave maidens and whores blushing alike. But then there were these fleeting moments: where truth was naked and bold, a captain’s command never to be questioned. These were the most priceless of Hawke’s memories, every single one gathered and guarded more jealously than any treasure.

“Of course, I did get rather bored waiting for you.” That trademark playfulness was back in Isabela’s tone and the Champion couldn’t help smiling. If those rare displays of intimacy ever went on longer than a few seconds one of them would surely break.

“I’ll just have to make it up to you then, won’t I?” Hawke grinned and drew her lover in for a long overdue kiss.

She loved the way Isabela tasted, the way she felt and fought and confessed all in just the touch of lips. A flick of the pirate’s clever tongue dared Hawke to go deeper, a moan trapped between them savoring the thrill of shared hunger. Longing was a dark, throbbing weight sitting heavy in the pit of her belly but with every traded breath Hawke felt herself growing lighter, freer.  A muted note of triumph rang in Isabela’s throat, escaping as an excited sigh that Hawke barely heard over the noise of metal hitting stone.

Bloody Void, she’d never gotten her armor off that fast!

The Champion started to chuckle at Isabela’s enthusiasm but all at once lips were on her neck, sucking a greedy mark onto pristine flesh and it was all Hawke could do to bite back an embarrassingly needy groan. She grabbed at the other woman, trying to find anchor in the rising tide of lust. Thin cotton led her fingers to the supple curve of Isabela’s ass and Hawke filled her grip with deliciously firm muscle, entranced by the feel of it clenching beneath her palms. The sailor was water flowing against her, rolling like waves and burying sounds of pleasure against Hawke’s skin.

It wouldn’t be the first time they fucked fully clothed, or against a wall, or with all the windows open. It probably wasn’t even the top twenty. But when Isabela’s impatient fingers tore Hawke’s collar wide to expose her flushed scar there was something undeniably different. Something wrong. She tried and failed to pull away, trapped between unforgiving stone and relentless Rivaini.

“Bela, wait.” Hawke struggled to shape a thought, a word for the sensation crawling angrily all over her skin. Unsurprisingly, Isabela ignored her, latching onto the throbbing mark to worship it like a victory flag.

Hawke buried her face into dark hair, trying to find a way to get the woman’s attention, trying to figure out what was wrong. The scent of ocean wind, rum barrels and damp teak clung to the inside of her nostrils, flooded her chest with comfort. Perhaps it was nothing, just her imagination, the weariness of the road and too long apart.  Teeth scraped her claim mark and Hawke gasped, a rush of jarring scents assailing her nose. Silt, sword polish, old feathers, oil, bile and death. Holy Andraste, so much death.

“Shit, Bela,” Hawke groaned, head spinning from the nausea of too many smells and memories clouding her senses. She tightened her grip on the sailor’s hair, eliciting a frustrated growl when she refused to let Isabela’s mouth stay on her skin. “Isabela,” she pleaded gently, miserable beneath that angry amber glare. “I have got to take a bath.”

“Maker’s saggy ass, Hawke!” Isabela’s fingers dug into her collar, tearing her off the wall to shove across the room. “Four months and you’d rather play in bubbles?”

“There aren’t any bubbles,” Hawke protested, adamantly telling herself that walking backwards wasn’t the same thing as retreat. Even when she stumbled and Isabela’s grip was all that kept her upright. “But I’m filthy and I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Being dirty has never been a problem for us, sweet thing.” Isabela let Hawke find her balance, one arm snaking around her shoulders and the other at her waist, leaning up to purr seductively against her lips.

“But I want to focus on you,” Hawke argued, annoyed by the cracks of desperation in her tone. “And right now all I can think about is the fact that I’m covered in corpses, demon ichor, wet ash and probably some of the gravy from the pie Sera threw at me last night.”

“Alright, Hawke.” Isabela’s eyes narrowed dangerously before her lips curled up with a wicked smile. “You want a bath? Let’s get you good and wet.”

Hawke didn’t even have a chance to panic when she felt the pirate’s grip tighten, all at once the world dropping, twisting, _splashing._ Her shocked oath was drowned in a mouthful of water, ears full of the muted noise of her own flailing. The Champion of Kirkwall wasn’t half so nimble weighed down in soaked clothes and slippery armor. She managed to grab the slick edges of the tub and pull herself up; spitting, coughing and ready to curse just as soon as she had enough air.

The choicest swears were right on her lips when she finally wiped her eyes clear to find Isabela. All the words shriveled up and retreated from her tongue, leaving a strangled sound of surprise at the leather-clad leg crashing into the water beside her. That first tidal wave buckled and swirled around the second boot when it landed on the other side.  Isabela gazed down at Hawke, one tilted brow gloating over her speechless confusion while she pulled spare daggers from invisible hiding places and tossed them aside. Fully disarmed, she dropped to her knees astride the pinned Champion.

“Now we’re both happy.” The pirate gave a throaty chuckle, grabbing the tub on either side of Hawke’s head and leaning in until there was nothing to see but the charcoal and flame of her blazing eyes.

Any shred of irritation or affront vanished beneath that gaze and Hawke reached up, forsaking her grip on the bath’s edge for a much riskier lifeline. Their splashing entrance had festooned Isabela’s skin with droplets, tiny transparent jewels that glittered across her arms and throat, shoulders and breasts. Thirst dragged Hawke’s mouth up an arching neck, swirling and sucking to gather the treasures on her tongue.

“Tell me, Admiral,” she growled low in Isabela’s ear, rolling that title in her mouth like fine wine and smirking when she felt the pirate shiver. “Does anyone _ever_ get their way with you?”

“Of course, sweetness.” A lilting note of laughter played beneath Isabela’s shortened breath. Partially gloved fingers tangled in Hawke’s hair, raking against her scalp and turning to pour words directly into her ear, “You do. All night tonight, if you’re good.”

“And if I’m bad?” The stillness of anticipation crept into Hawke, winding her tight as a trapped spring just waiting for release.

“Even better.” Isabela softened imperceptibly, taunt becoming invitation.

The slipperiness of the tub was suddenly an advantage and Hawke seized it, twisting sideways and dragging the pirate with her. Water pitched violently around their corkscrewing bodies, cresting over all sides until Hawke emerged triumphantly atop a now equally drenched Isabela. A hollow victory at best, as she felt her core tighten and throb at the sight below her. It was bitterly unfair that the woman looked even more ravishing dripping wet. A true sea siren: temptation at home amidst the waves, capable of luring her prey to willing death.

 The Champion tore off her sopping tunic and tossed it aside, awed as always by the heat and hunger that licked over her naked skin with Isabela’s eyes. For years they’d teased, flirted, fucked and finally even gave in to making love, but it never seemed to diminish the rawness of the need, the wonder of something magic that they only found in each other.

“You know,” Hawke licked her lips, toying with the laces of Isabela’s bodice. That signature smirk crept into her tone, “I won’t be able to get any more of my armor off like this.”

“No? That’s a pity.” Sinful delight hummed beneath Isabela’s coy reply, her lovely mouth curving into an impossibly innocent pout. “Whatever will we do?”

This time Hawke expected the sudden surge of movement, letting herself be swept backwards with a tide that splattered water all over stone. She landed against the opposite rim of the tub; a ship tossed to rocks. Even though there would inevitably be bruises and blossoms of color all over their skin come the morning, Hawke noticed that one gentle hand kept her head from striking the edge. A grip both protective and possessive never let her fall farther than a breath away from Isabela’s lips.

Isabela in water was a sight like no other. Hawke beamed up at the vision rising above her, a rainstorm of droplets cascading off soaked fabric and bronzed skin. Heavy strands of ebony tickled her cheeks and clung between their mouths, casting a shower when the pirate tossed her head back before diving in for a kiss. Finally Hawke tasted her, just Isabela and nothing else; a river running salt and sweet, the breeze of an exotic eastern port caressing her tongue.

White cloth stuck, nearly transparent, to sultry skin. Hawke explored the thin cotton, little more than a film over every ripple and clench of the sinuous muscles underneath. Her fingers quickly surrendered any hope of undoing the sailor’s bodice, wet knots tighter than any fist. Instead she sought lower, towards the heat that rocked so sensuously in her lap. Their kiss broke on a gasp, a ragged curse rolling off Isabela’s tongue when one hand slid between her thighs.

Hawke sucked in a breath, surprised by the feel of bare flesh waiting for her. _Only Isabela_. Water rippled and flooded between her fingers as she deftly traced swollen folds, dipping in to marvel at the entirely different wetness that welcomed her touch. _Only Isabela would be waiting with daggers and no smalls._ A rush of warmth flooded her, painted itself across her face with a grin of pride and adoration.

“Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself,” Isabela scolded, punishing that cocky smile with a nip of teeth. She rolled her hips, melting over Hawke’s fingers.

“Sorry,” Hawke apologized with absolutely no regret as she circled and teased at the ring of flesh that quivered to pull her in.

She loved feeling Isabela like this: suspended on the edge of want, the brilliant darkness of her eyes swirling with threat and pleas. It was never more than a moment, torture for them both until they broke. Hawke groaned as she succumbed, sinking deep into the feel of Isabela tightening, trembling so invitingly around her.

Fire and salt stung her raw mouth, Isabela’s pulse racing beneath her lips, the hum of moans tickling her tongue. Another finger and the pirate arched beautifully above Hawke, ripples and tides forming a whirlpool around the divinity of her pleasure. Hands clenched at her shoulders, tangled and tugged at short hair with echoes of the demand carrying Isabela’s voice to the wind. Exquisite, treacherous and beautiful.

“Isabela— _Maker_ —I missed you,” Hawke breathed her ragged confession against skin mottled with mouth-shaped bruises. Words she hadn’t dared to think, let alone utter out loud for fear they’d be her grave. This need for Isabela, the craving to be near her, with her, _within_ her; it lived in the hollow of her bones, an ache that shadowed every heartbeat. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long,” Hawke’s tongue felt heavy, weighed beneath want she couldn’t begin to explain, could only pour out in nonsense. “To hold you, hear you. . .”

“To . . . fuck me?” Isabela’s honeyed purr was too breathless for laughter, but the tease of it was enough to lure Hawke’s eyes. Embers met her gaze, a consuming glow of warmth that offered Isabela’s own revelations. Her lust might dance and flicker like candle fire, but beneath it all was a promise of devotion that would burn the world to be with Hawke.

“Always.” The Champion broke into a shameless grin, suddenly light within herself again. Her fingers sped, matching rhythm with Isabela’s clenching muscles. “I’m going to keep fucking you forever.”  One strong arm wrapped around the sailor’s rocking hips, dragging her into a closer, deeper embrace. “Until we’re so old we can’t remember we just fucked and keep going over and over and over . . .”

A giddy, dizzy sensation swathed Hawke’s mind, clouded out everything except velvety walls shuddering and clinging to her fingers even tighter, coating her in fresh arousal. She stared up at Isabela, a hundred threads of longing unfurling in her belly and stretched almost to tearing.

“I want you forever, Isabela,” Hawke declared in a raw whisper, as if they hadn’t both always known. “I want you to be my dying breath.”

“Good,” Isabela panted, voice wavering between growl and groan. “Because if you stop,” a note that was nearly anguish stopped her throat and she raked it into Hawke’s skin, “I’m going to kill you. Fuck—Hawke— _fuck_ _me!”_

With that beautiful command ringing off the walls and out the window to grace all of Skyhold, Hawke had no choice but to obey. She hooked her fingers, catching broken notes of pleasure on each thrust and chasing them higher, faster. Isabela’s bucking hips were harder to follow, a dance losing its rhythm, skin and leather squeaking urgently against the sides of the tub. Hawke tilted up to savor the glistening skin of her lover’s curved throat, pressing her palm up and flat to provide every last spark.

There, in the beat between a racing pulse and quaking muscles, was the stillness of everything sacred captured in flesh for just this second. A single touch shattered it, letting Isabela fall up while holding her tight through the glory.

 _This._ Sudden clarity pierced through Hawke, winding all her senses into a single realization. She kept Isabela close, easing back to rest against the edge of the bathtub and let their bodies calm like the gradually quieting waters. Dripping fingers stroked her cheek, traced her lips before being lost in a tender kiss. _This is home._

On flea-riddled beds at the Hanged Man. Between silk sheets in the luxury of mansions and captain’s quarters. With curses and laughter, cards and blades; liquor, dirty books, beaches and booty and endless horizons to chase. It was only with Isabela that Hawke truly belonged.

 

 

 

 


	2. The Games We Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes reference to events in my other stories, but only in passing. It shouldn't be necessary to read those in order to understand what's mentioned here.

Once in a very great while, almost never in times of sunlight or sobriety, Isabela allowed the past to creep into her mind. Like tonight, even though there hadn’t been a single drop of alcohol past her lips. Hawke was an intoxication all her own, twice the kick with only a fraction of the regret. Isabela sleepily played with the short, erratic strands of hair that tickled her fingers and throat as she felt memories sneak up, drawing her thoughts into their cloying, comforting embrace.

It had never been like this with anyone else. For all the lovers that she’d taken to bed, Isabela had never been so foolish as to sleep beside a single one. Once she’d freed herself of that curse who called himself ‘husband’ she’d made the space he occupied—in her life and on her mattress—entirely her own, barred to everyone like a Chantry sister’s tickle parts. Even to Hawke. Beautiful, sinful, gallant Hawke; the seductive dumbass that would happily rip off her own arm simply because someone needed a hand.

As if stealing away from her bed in the early morning hours could somehow protect Isabela from the want that grew more jealous and greedy with every touch, every caress of stormy blue eyes daring her to stay. She told herself it was safer for her, for them both, that this way everything was only skin deep. Ideas became rules became shields. Because Isabela was in control so long as she was on top. And it was only sex so long as she left right after. And feelings would stay out because she said so.

 _Spank Andraste, was I really that stupid?_ A tiny accusation of mockery and disbelief escaped Isabela in a puff of air. Her sigh ruffled the very tips of Hawke’s frenzied hair, the swell and fall of her breath enough to alert the Champion even in her dreams. Arms and legs that were tangled so possessively with Isabela tightened a fraction, Hawke muttering something nonsensical but undoubtedly heroic before nuzzling deeper into the solace of ample breasts. Isabela didn’t bother to fight smiles like this anymore; amused and affectionate and so very amazed that this particular treasure had landed in her lap. Hawke was jewels and maidens, kittens, whores, liquor and lyrium all in one.

Four years. Since Isabela seldom thought of the past she also paid little attention to the passage of time, and that realization suddenly caught her by surprise. It had been four years since the first time she let herself fall asleep in Hawke’s arms. Mind, that was during an absolute bitch of a mating fever. They didn’t so much sleep as pass out for brief intervals of exhaustion between lust-filled frenzies that scandalized half of High Town. And gave the other half ideas.

A smug grin spread across Isabela’s cheeks, recalling the looks she got in the High Town market for weeks after her heat. Almost as glorious as the way that brass-tittied man crusher choked and sputtered when she found out Isabela had decided to stick around. You’d have thought she suggested Donnic bend his new bride over the canapés and give all the wedding guests a real show. Come to think of it, she might’ve said something along those lines. No, no—Isabela bit her lip to stifle a pleasantly wicked chuckle—she’d asked to have a go at the bride _, that_ was it! Not like Aveline was unspoiled goods anyway.

“What are you thinking?” Hawke mumbled, words raising a trail of gooseflesh down the valley of Isabela’s breasts. Neither of them had moved, there hadn’t been any stir between them beyond contented breathing; and yet Isabela had known Hawke was waking. Just as Hawke had known she was awake.

“Only naughty things, I promise.” Isabela smoothed her fingers through mussed hair. At the best of times Hawke’s head looked like she was three steps from a pillow. Now the sharp strands stood askew in every direction, each a detailed confession of being thoroughly savaged.

“Oh, yes? Like what?” The Champion tilted her face just enough to look up at Isabela, refusing to surrender the soft heaven where she lay. Guttering candles in the room caught in Hawke’s eyes, tiny pinpoints of brilliance like the stars reflected on a still sea. Isabela knew those ever shifting constellations, could chart her every course by their light.

“Being three knuckles deep in Aveline,” Isabela replied with devious honesty. Sometimes honest answers were easy. Small and simple, ready at the edge of her tongue. So much easier than _true._ Because truths were the bigger, heavier things that made it hard to think straight, made her throat ache on words that couldn’t quite come loose. They were what rose inside her when she let herself get lost in Hawke’s eyes for too long.

“Fingers down her throat then? Trying to make her vomit some poison, I suspect,” Hawke chuckled, willing to pretend she couldn’t feel the something more that lingered at the edges of their laughter. “Because we both know she’s never letting you anywhere near her knickers.”

“That’s not true!” Isabela huffed protest, faking offense as dramatically as any Orlesian. “I happen to have two pairs of her underthings.”

“You don’t!” Hawke rose to her elbows, gaping down at the pirate in delighted horror. Years together and still she could be surprised. A tickle of pride curled with the slyness of Isabela’s smile.

“Hanging in the ship’s galley,” she confirmed, gloating over her tiny, magnificent victory. “They hold melons very nicely and the men are quite taken with them. Named the red ones Andraste’s Blessings.”

Hawke didn’t say anything, just stared at Isabela with her brow scrunched up trying to make sense of a world turned upside down. It was rather cute. So few things could leave the silver tongued Champion of Kirkwall truly speechless. Besides Isabela’s mouth and fingers anyway. Or the properly used accessory.

“Isabela, are you really telling me,” Hawke struggled with the very idea shaping on her lips. “That Aveline actually wore _red_ knickers?”

The sheer ridiculousness swept over them, spilling freely in both their voices and the Champion couldn’t hold herself up anymore, collapsing into fits of giggles muffled in Isabela’s hair. She could feel every inch of Hawke along the length of her body, her breath and heartbeat pressed so close it governed her own, electrifying and soothing her every sense. Their slowly fading chuckles matched in speed, each time one bubbled up again the other following until they were both too breathless to laugh anymore. Whatever tension had been left in Hawke’s muscles uncoiled, melting completely into Isabela’s welcoming warmth with a soft sound of pleasure humming in her throat.

Gone were the early days of fragility when they held each other. Terrified to touch and clinging too tight. Now freedom came naturally laying in each other’s arms; sprawling, tangled, inseparable but untethered. Inch by inch Isabela had shared her space, surrendered control, until being on top didn’t matter as much as being together. Realizing that Hawke held her the same no matter how they lay.

“I don’t think she ever wore them,” Isabela murmured absently, fingers back in Hawke’s hair and trailing over the passionate signatures left on her skin. Thin welts and small crescents from blunted nails, rough scratches from the stone floor. She traced each fondly, contented sighs swelling and fading beneath her idle strokes. “Probably didn’t fit,” a yawn stretched her voice, long and high before settling in closer to sleep again, “Or else Donnic wouldn’t have traded them for two pairs of mine.”

“Yours,” Hawke repeated, wrapping her weary mind around the final blows of revelation. Anyone else would protest, or ask skeptical questions. But Hawke wasn’t anyone, as Isabela was reminded by the languid press of lips against her neck, just enough teeth bared in the drowsy kiss to reveal a grin, “Bloody Maker, Bela, I love you.”

 “Oh, my sweet thing,” Isabela sighed, holding Hawke just a fraction closer than was possible. _I do too._ Spikes of errant hair tickled her lips when she placed soft kiss on top of the nearly sleeping Champion, an exquisitely painful swell of happiness escaping on her breath, “I know.”

            -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

Given the nature and abilities of the allies Elyn Trevelyan had made for the Inquisition, she tended to wake every morning braced for the impossible. A dozen ideas of havoc ran through her mind before she even opened her eyes. What might it be? Demons lobbing spit off her balcony? An infestation of rabid nugs? Varric in a ball gown? With this many mages in one place anything was possible. It wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest to wake and find the mountains had vanished and all of Skyhold was suddenly an island in the Amaranthine. In which case Vivienne would be standing over her with that damned look of pity and ‘I told you so.’

Only one thing ever shocked the Inquisitor, and that was finding everything the same each dawn. Maybe a tree or two in the court had magically changed color, or moved across the yard, but thus far not one spell had harmed a single stone of Skyhold or the people protected within. Solas said it had something to do with eons of magic in the ground and lots of elvhen history that she politely pretended to listen to, all the while wondering why the ancient elves couldn’t have placed an enchantment to keep birds from flying in her windows. Her morning breakfast tray never escaped a few pecks from winged invaders.

Honestly, if she really were Andraste’s chosen she’d be fairly pissed about this sort of treatment.  Right people, here to save the world and such; think we could manage a breakfast without ass feathers? Probably for the best that she wasn’t anything more than a highborn rake with a knack for charm and not dying. _Should write that down for Varric._ Elyn grinned around a mouthful of toast as she trotted down to the throne room. The dwarf novelist might be full of five kinds of shite, but he was the only one she trusted to get any of this right.

Every day more and more people appeared in the main hall. Soldiers, pilgrims and nobles all rubbing elbows; apparently some less savory parts too, if the scandalized complaints could be believed. Elyn shoved the last of her breakfast into her mouth to free up her hands for the inevitable gauntlet of greetings she had to wade through to reach the main doors. Everyone wanted to shake hands with the Inquisitor, needed those precious seconds to make their story part of hers.

Saved my family, can’t thank you, the farm burned, servants looted everything, still searching for him, saw the miracle, uncle’s favorite corset, praise Andraste, found my daughter, black goat yea-high, Maker save you, Inquisitor, save us, Inquisitor, bless you—

“Inquisitor.” One calm voice pierced the rest with the ease of authority. Trevelyan fought her inward groan when she saw Mother Giselle’s face. That was not her happy, encouraging, patiently-willing-to-guide face. Her current expression reminded Elyn very uncomfortably of the looks her mother used to give her when she giggled during the Chant.

“Reverend Mother,” she greeted in reply, artfully disentangling herself from the crowd. Giselle didn’t linger, turning to lead the Inquisitor away from prying ears. That wasn’t a good sign either.

“Your Worship, I’m sure you appreciate the fragility of our position right now?” True to form, the holy woman couldn’t speak plain.

Not for the first time Elyn contemplated locking her, Morrigan and Leliana all in one room just to see who could out-twist the others’ tongues. Then she remembered that Leliana and Morrigan had recently begun some entirely different oral games that no Chantry mother should have to witness. Oh, but wouldn’t it be just grand if Sister Nightingale’s pleasure was best poured out in prayer? The Maker did love a good song . . .

“Our position?” Trevelyan parroted back innocently, buying time until she could trust her voice not to betray her.

“We stand on a precipice, my Lady, in more ways than one,” Giselle explained, thankfully oblivious to the Inquisitor’s wicked imaginings. “Change surrounds us at every turn and the eyes of the world look to you for a path. You and your chosen allies. The Inquisition is a beacon in dark times and everyone here at Skyhold is seen as blessed and holy.”

“How delightful! I’ll be sure to send Bull as my envoy to the Grand Cathedral.” The answer was sharper than her usual quips, but this subject had come up before and never failed to make her bristle.

Giselle meant well, and had certainly never voiced any opinion half as harsh as Cassandra or Vivienne. But those two were willing to stand beside her in battle and protect even the friends they disliked, they were allowed their narrow-minded moments.

“Based on his reputation among the sisters, I do not doubt he would be enthusiastically welcomed.” Mother Giselle didn’t miss a beat, eyes sparkling with all the secrets of the confessional and none of the shame.

For a woman who’d spent her life in the cloisters she was shockingly comfortable with sin. It made Elyn relax and let out a chagrinned sigh, remembering that it wasn’t just any Chant-spouting sister she was talking to.

“Then I won’t send him until after we’ve dealt with Corypheus. Once he’s there we’ll never be able to drag him away.” A trill of laughter rolled through her words, pleased to hear its echo in Giselle’s own low chuckle. She fixed her attention squarely on eyes so heavily lined with wisdom they could be an elven maze. “Now tell me, just what is it that has you worried about the Inquisition’s good name?”

“Our name? But, nothing.” Giselle blinked in confusion, then her expression lightened with understanding. “Ah, no, Your Worship. I have no doubt that you have crafted a noble and virtuous reputation for Andraste’s army.”

“Oh, well, thank you?” Elyn fussed with a loose strand of hair that was suddenly very annoying, marshaling her thoughts. “Then what was the whole fragile precipice you were on about?”

“Your _followers_ are fragile, Inquisitor,” Giselle huffed with in kindly annoyance, a beloved nanny dealing with her particularly stubborn ward. “Skyhold is rife with holy bliss and fleshly pleasures living side by side, nearly intertwined. Both are gifts of the Maker but not everyone is ready or able to accept such opposed rewards.”

“Mother,” Trevelyan pinched the bridge of her nose, aware that she was nearing her breaking point and it wasn’t even midday. “Please just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I have been in confession all night.” The Reverend Mother finally said something that made sense. Surprising, certainly, but at least it explained why she was so wound up.

“You? _Really_? I mean—I’m sure the Maker understands.” Elyn cursed herself under her breath. They hadn’t exactly covered this in her diplomacy lessons with Josephine. How to handle a holy woman confessing sinful thoughts . . . Nope, nothing. But she could tell her which fork to use on the aspic.

“HEARING confessions!” Giselle corrected, exasperation making her voice a fraction louder than necessary. She immediately colored, wiping a hand across her face as if she could erase the last few moments. “Apologies, Inquisitor. I have been up all night listening to confessions and am wearier than I thought.”

“No, I’m sorry, Mother. You shouldn’t have to deal with that. What’s going on? Why so many?” Trevelyan reached out a steadying hand, squeezing the other woman’s arm with what little comfort she could offer.

What must it be like to spend all night hearing the sinful confessions of others? How do you listen to hour after hour of secret indulgences, unholy thoughts and forbidden cravings? Pride, Hunger, Rage, Desire; the demons probably collected around that tiny booth like starving dogs on a bone!

“The faithful of Skyhold are people from all walks of life. Among them are many,” Giselle paused, a flash of sympathy and anger twisting her brow. “ _Many_ who have not known life as they should. Mages, Templars, those in holy orders—these are men and women that know little beyond discipline and abstinence. Outside Chantry and Circle walls they are frightened of themselves, Inquisitor.”

Holy Orders. Trevelyan found her mind sticking on that phrase. Seekers of Truth were a holy order, weren’t they? Was it even possible . . . Might Cassandra be one that sought out confession to resist desire? A spark of heat licked through Elyn’s veins, a dragon’s tail coiling around her insides. The ominous, deadly Seeker was forever pulling away from her at the last moment. Smiling and warm and full of unspoken challenges that were really invitation; then suddenly blocked off behind ice and thorns, a wall she couldn’t begin to understand. Was fear the explanation for this torturous game that was equal parts dance, hunt and battle all in one?

“What should I do?” Elyn didn’t know the emotion thickening her throat until she heard it in her voice. Raw and chastened, hopeful but bruised.

“Keep them focused, my lady,” the reply was firm as iron, unyielding. “We wage war in the Maker’s name; there is more at stake right now than withering carnal pleasures. Such vices are neither the beginning nor the end of the world.”

“Good advice.” The Inquisitor’s tongue stuck in her mouth, dry and glued on simple but bitter words. The woman was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And,” Giselle took a step closer, taking both of Trevelyan’s hands in her own and gazing up as if reading her heart through her eyes, “Never forget that where love is two souls joining, it is the Maker’s highest gift. A joy that is nearest our eternal blessing. Worth endless battles to win, and every shred of our beings to hold forever.”

“Mother,” Elyn’s voice faltered over her stammering breath, “You missed your true calling. You should be writing romances over there with Varric.”

“I prefer poetry.” Giselle waved one hand, dismissing the entire subject as she moved to walk away. A final thought gave her pause and she looked back at the Inquisitor with that same twinkle in her eye that knew more secrets than she’d ever reveal. “And perhaps you could tell your most _romantic_ friends to be a bit quieter with their love?”

Feeling even more lost than usual in the conversation, Elyn offered her most reassuring nod and quickly walked away. Just who in the Void had been getting into trouble? Maker knew it wasn’t her. The chill on her sheets these past weeks made the mountain wind seem balmy. Too bad it seemed like she was the only one. Something about constant, imminent death apparently made everyone randy as nugs in spring. But for the most part they knew how to be discreet.

When the Inquisitor found Varric’s usual spot by the fire vacant she knew he was at the tavern, an idea she wholeheartedly supported. Stepping out into the sunlight revealed a much later morning than she’d expected. The servants let her sleep late today. Or perhaps they knew better than to wake her after a full night of drinking with Sera and Bull. That the massive Qunari warrior could drink like an entire navy on holiday was no surprise, but that bloody elf was beyond reason.

Walking from Skyhold’s main tower to the Herald’s Rest was such a familiar trail that Trevelyan could do it blindfolded. She’d done it blind drunk, hadn’t she? All the while, her mind churned with possible explanations for Mother Giselle’s rather cryptic closing words. The Inquisitor’s friends were a passionate, opinionated and—more often than not—incredibly loud group of people. But very few could be described as romantic. That’s to say, many of them were quite terribly in love, just not in any normal storybook sort of way.

She suspected that Blackwall had a lot a very chivalrous, sentimental ideas underneath all that bearish body hair. Particularly when he spoke of ‘Lady Montilyet’ like some fine and fragile jewel. He’d clearly never seen Josephine’s deadly, arched gaze destroy unruly nobles at supper. Leliana and the Hero of Ferelden were the stuff of legend, classic in every way except for the fact that Sister Nightingale had very recently decided she had love enough for two. The idea of her and Morrigan together always sent a shiver down Trevelyan’s spine, not the nice kind either.

“Ah, Inquisitor! Decided to come and try for third place?” Varric’s barrel-chested voice hallooed a happy greeting, waving to her from the upper floor of the tavern as soon as she crossed the threshold. Elyn smiled at the dwarf, perhaps the most die-hard romantic of all. Just because Bianca was a crossbow didn’t mean he couldn’t compose ballads and sing to her at night.

Trevelyan grabbed a tankard from the bar. Nothing so strong as to ruin the busy day ahead, but enough to take the edge off her lingering headache from the night before. 

“Third place?” The Inquisitor trotted up the stairs, half expecting to see the drinking game from last night still raging on.

Instead she found Varric wearing the most gloriously shit-eating grin she’d ever seen. Beside him at the table was Hawke, wearing a pirate. A very scantily clad pirate, sporting a diabolical smile of her own. For the space of several paralyzed heartbeats Elyn forgot absolutely everything, right down to her own name. There was a spell in all those dark curves draped across Hawke’s lap, sinuous limbs wrapped around her armor. Scandalous and erotic, certainly, but intimate in a way the Inquisitor couldn’t quite explain.

Suddenly all of Mother Giselle’s complaints made a lot more sense.

“The famous Inquisitor at last! And here I thought these two were just taking the piss.” A whiskey colored gaze swept over Trevelyan from head to toe, the arch of one brow hinting her approval. Clearly neither of them had changed.

“Isabela, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Elyn executed part of a bow, her gaze drifting back up with a wink, “And a promise of being sore everywhere else.”

“Ashy Asses, Rivaini, she really _does_ know you!” Varric laughed, kicking one chair out from the table in invitation.

“It was a long time ago,” the Inquisitor quickly pointed out as she sat down, aware that she was speaking only to Hawke. The Champion had proven to be a useful ally, but also a reassurance Trevelyan didn’t know she’d needed. Fighting the impossible felt easier when she could talk to someone who’d done it before.

“Mmm, but you’re still charming as ever. Told you she had a gifted tongue.” Isabela stroked her fingers down Hawke’s cheek, turning the Champion’s attention to whisper in her ear. Except Elyn would wager there weren’t any words, just heat and teeth earning a raspy laugh.

“So you said,” Hawke agreed, indulging in Isabela’s attentions without taking her eyes off the Inquisitor. Not even when she turned and was within a breath of her lover’s kiss. “Perhaps we should move her up to second?”

“Second what?” Trevelyan knew that logically she should be worried, that these two rogues were nothing but tricks and traps and worse together. But the air crackled with a deliciously sticky charge, dangerous and cozy all at once.

“But the songbird!” Isabela pouted in protest, fighting to keep her sulky expression when Hawke’s fingers glided very deliberately over her breast and up to her throat.

“It’s their favorite game, don’t expect it to make sense,” Varric sagely advised from Elyn’s side, just the right dose of reality to pierce the thickening air pervading her senses. He took a long slug from his ale, wiping his mouth on one sleeve before thoughtfully adding, “And don’t get your hopes up.”

“Sister Nightingale has a witch in her sheets now. A mean one that doesn’t like anyone touching her things.” Hawke shook her head, a smirk somehow more important than the lush temptation of Isabela’s waiting lips.

They were talking about Leliana. Touching Leliana. Touching her in ways Morrigan wouldn’t like. The Inquisitor tugged at her collar and took a quick drink of ale, wishing her mind hadn’t just instantly filled with visions that would put confessionals out of business for good.

“Mmmm, two for one. You know I love a bargain.” Isabela threaded both hands into Hawke’s hair to pull her in for a kiss that made Elyn’s lungs ache. She needed to stop watching. The surge of heat in her belly was starting to trickle lower and she couldn’t afford to be this kind of distracted. Not today. Or tomorrow. Probably ever.

But she also couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“You love it more when you get to steal,” Hawke broke away from Isabela’s lips with a sharp gasp for air that came back in teasing laughter. “That’s why you’re so greedy about her. You’ve had that redheaded vixen what—twice, three times?”

And there was another mental image Trevelyan found that she didn’t need but would undoubtedly revisit in the dark hours of some lonely night. Repeatedly.

“Sweetness, that depends entirely on how you keep count.” The rumble of Isabela’s purr was slippery and coarse as a tongue dragging up skin and Elyn shivered involuntarily. It had clearly been way too long. Her libido was lodging a hundred furious complaints. Except not a one was louder than the ache beneath her ribs that dragged her eyes towards the window.

Seeker Pentaghast was in the training yard below. Maker, she was there from before dawn to past dark every single, bloody day! The Inquisitor had never realized before that this window offered a perfect view. Cassandra spun and lunged with the sort of ferocious grace that would make dancers weep and soldiers tremble. Her blade splintering thick wood made Elyn’s muscles clench like she’d taken the blow.

“Rivaini can cheat at anything, Hawke, you think she’s going to play fair in bed?” Varric didn’t seem affected in the slightest by the sensual theatrics. Had he just been around these two for so long that he was immune? Not even his loyalty to Bianca could nullify the lust that was hanging so heavily around them. Yet he was relaxing back in his chair with a casual grin that seemed completely unaffected.

“Alright, if you can get your bard and witch to join us they’ll stay at number two.” Hawke’s reluctant agreement lured Trevelyan’s attention back to the salacious lovers. Pale fingers were combing through rampant black hair, exposing the dark arch of Isabela’s neck.

“And this charmer at three?” Isabela looked over her shoulder to Elyn, tossing the last of her raven locks out of the way of Hawke’s hand. Whatever smart quip had formed on the Inquisitor’s tongue crumbled to dust.

Isabela wasn’t wearing her signature necklace. Somehow, Trevelyan hadn’t noticed and yet she’d known. On that smooth expanse of bronzed skin the claim mark was bold as a victory flag. That was what was different. Isabela wasn’t even pretending to hide the scar. She’d mated. Against all odds and even despite what the stories said, Isabela had been claimed by the Champion. She wore her mark boldly, an advertisement of her bond with Hawke that only served to amplify its power. No wonder it was so hard to breathe in this lust-addled air.

“I’d rather move her up to one.” Hawke’s eyes slid over to the Inquisitor, alight with ideas of warring power and authority broken into tremulous gasps. That knowing look carved through her brash shields and stroked the pulsing needs beneath. Alpha to alpha. The promise of understanding what no one else could.

“No,” Isabela objected immediately, pulling Hawke’s attention back with light fingers and persuasive nips. “We can do her first but she’s not number one.”

“Well then, screw that.” Trevelyan managed to rally herself, hoping her voice didn’t sound as leaden as it felt on her tongue. She pushed up from the table, shooting the surprised pair a saucy wink, “I’ve never liked coming first. Feels too selfish.”

“Oh sod it, Hawke!” Isabela protested, eyes burning a trail through Elyn’s armor. “She’s just too lovely to miss out on a bit of fun.”

“And she knows where to find us.” Hawke’s fingers unconsciously traced the mark on Isabela’s shoulder, soothing her mate’s agitation. A few soft and subtle kisses stole away the last of the pirate’s complaints before Hawke looked back up at Elyn, crystal blue glittering with shared secrets, “And you’re welcome anytime.”

“Thanks,” Elyn nodded, head still spinning a little from the suddenness of the world twisting and reshaping itself once again. She stopped at the edge of the stairs, holding the railing a little tighter than necessary but she needed that anchor. “I’m third on the list and I know the options for two,” she licked her lips, noting that Varric’s eyes were sharply trying to warn her away. “Who’s number one?”

Hawke hesitated, her gaze slipping away for the first time. Not shame, precisely, but not comfortable with the shape of a truth.

“That dark crowned stallion out there, of course. I’ve been watching her beat the ever-loving shit out of dummies for two weeks now.” Isabela’s lips spread wide in a lascivious smile, her own eyes drifting to the window. “So much energy, so wasted. I want to see what all that passion looks like without armor and blades.”

“You and me both,” Elyn muttered, cursing when she realized that she’d spoken out loud. Silence rolled behind her words as deafening as thunder.

Varric pretended not to have heard. Hawke offered her a panged look that promised a bottle of whiskey and stories that would remind her she wasn’t alone. Only Isabela looked surprised, and even then it was only for a heartbeat.

“Andraste’s Soggy Smalls!” The pirate growled irritably and grabbed a mug of ale off the table, preparing for a vicious sulk. “Fuck her properly, will you? Maker knows I won’t get to now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real plot in mind here yet. Just playing with the fun of Isabela at Skyhold and the way the various personalities would interact. The Queen of the Eastern Seas is a catalyst in her own right, so I feel she'd trigger a lot of inevitable effects. 
> 
> Dealing with Hawke and Isabela so far down the road in their relationship is also different than anything I've done before. Less angst but still a lot of baggage. Hopefully they sound true.


	3. Amusements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a stupidly busy week so I haven't had the time to put this chapter through the 3 proofs that I usually do. If you spot errors, please tell me.

The ocean had a natural sensuality to it. That rolling rhythm, the humid breezes gusting over your face. The way the waves bucked and crashed like a lover pinned to the sheets. At least once every day Isabela closed her eyes, longing for that taste of salt on her tongue, the boisterous noise of her crew shouting ribald flirtations to the sea like some passing whore.

Being on land was an almighty dock-block. And mountains? Mountains were nothing but a bloody tease. Just look at the names! Hunterhorn. White Spire. These Peaks and Mount that. Clearly the explorers and cartographers making the maps of Thedas hadn’t seen or touched a woman in far too long. Why couldn’t they just be honest about it and call them tits? This whole place would be a damned sight more inviting with a name like Barebacks, instead of a warning that you’d get frostbite on your bits if you whipped them out for longer than a piss.

Not that there weren’t some compensations for dragging her ass out of the water and up to this Maker-forsaken pile of rocks. Hawke, obviously. And when Hawke was busy collecting other people’s problems to solve the way Merrill gathered wildflowers or Fenris grudges? There were plenty of amusements to find.

“You almost done? I got the prickles telling me there’s someone coming.” Sera’s fingers were drumming an impatient tattoo on her thigh. That tiny thumping noise near Isabela’s ear was a mild distraction, but not enough to steal attention from her work.

“Sweetness, when I’m around there’s bound to be someone coming.” Her smirking retort turned into a smile of triumph when she felt the last tumbler slide into place. The click of the lock was barely more than a muffled vibration but it traveled up her fingers in that delicious way of all things forbidden.

They stole quickly into the opened quarters, instinct keeping them stealthy despite the urge to celebrate.  The room was surprisingly austere, highlighted more often with touches of sentiment than luxury. Perfectly refined, strategically understated, reservedly lovely. Exactly what you’d expect.

“Right, you take the chest, I’ll take the drawers.” Sera nodded to the tall bureau on the far wall.

 “Greedy little sticky fingers, wanting the best bits for yourself.” Isabela tossed the elf a wink as they moved across the room.

 “Yeah well, if I let you have a go then all of Skyhold would hear, wouldn’t they? Do you even know how to do it quiet-like?” The blonde shot back, rapidly yanking various drawers open and closed.

Isabela’s smile was turned towards the armoire so Sera wouldn’t see it. Wouldn’t see the thoughts that slid through her mind like skin beneath her hands, catching on memories of silence.

_Hawke bit back a moan, teeth sinking white dents into the flushed curve of her lower lip. Stone echoed the emptiness of the room, catching only the softest sounds; breathing, panting, wet. A feathery whimper brushed Isabela’s ears, dragged her eyes to find Hawke. Pierced by the sight of stormy blue lost in blackness, the intensity that made it hard to breathe. Made it feel like she was the one teetering on the edge . . ._

“Of course I do, silly thing.” Isabela busied herself searching the various cupboards and compartments on the wardrobe, stealing quick peaks inside before moving onto the next. “That’s what gags are for.”

A snort from the other side of the room announced Sera’s barely concealed laughter. Bumping into an old familiar face in the tavern at the top of this iceberg had been a surprise. Realizing that Sera was the scrawny cutpurse that used to terrorize Denerim’s back alleys made for an even more welcome reunion. Always had been a lot of potential in that one. Isabela distinctly recalled seeing her hang about behind The Pearl some nights, slipping coin off patrons too drunk, sick or wrapped up in ‘business’ to notice. 

“Champion of Kirkwall gagged up,” the elf giggled. “Varric left that out of the book, didn’t he?”

“Not for my sake. I offered to help him write a few of those chapters so it would be more accurate.” Her tongue twisted around that final word, caress and curse in a single verdict.

It still rankled ever so slightly in the recesses of Isabela’s thoughts. That sodding book. Writing about Hawke she could forgive; shite wind, she could even understand that much. Hawke was her own epic. She deserved a book. Ballads and plays and a volume of bawdy poetry to go along as well. But that damn dwarf went and had to include her in it. Had to go make it a big, sticky, romantic . . . thing.  Like they were some kind of Orlesian pastry. Even loving Varric as much as she did (he was an eternal #2 on her future conquest list, right after Bianca) there were times she hoped he got a papercut on his prick,

“Would’ve made ten times the gold too.”  Isabela easily shrugged away those thoughts and returned to the task at hand. No point dwelling on the past, even if it was inked on a page.

“No shit, I might’ve bought a copy instead of stealing it out of some nob’s knapsack!” Sera’s demented good humor was mercifully oblivious to the brief and subtle shifts of Isabela’s mind. Which wasn’t to say that she wasn’t shrewd in her own right. There was a calculating swiftness beneath all that toothy laughter and scrunched up glare. 

A flash of color caught Isabela’s eye and she reached to the back of the wooden drawer she’d just opened. Silk brushed her fingers and she was immediately suffused with the electrifying surge of victory.

“Got them!” She pulled her prize out of the bureau’s depths and revealed them to daylight. Dark gold and lacy, the sort of garment that was never meant to see the sun.

“Andraste’s prissy pants! Would you look at that?” Sera rushed over, gleefully stroking the small clothes with a delicate touch.

Both rogues handled the indulgent underthings with a distorted sort of honor. You could understand so much about a person from their small clothes. Particularly the ones shoved far to the back of the drawer. These silky little treats weren’t just a luxury; they were an indulgence, part of a fantasy that was yet to be realized. For all the suggestions of scandal, Isabela couldn’t ignore the unbearably innocent feeling of the garment in her hands. These knickers were a crime far worse than anything she and Sera had planned.

“Is there a different pair?” Sera had mysteriously managed to follow the exact same trail of thought, blurry lines of conscience giving way at one suddenly impassable boundary. The silent question bled between her spoken words. Do we have to use these?

“I think so, several in fact.” Isabela rummaged in the open drawer, answering just as clearly. She pulled out a much more nondescript set of whites and handed them over.

“Those’ll be better!” Sera smiled, not entirely hiding the forced nature of her enthusiasm. “Last longer anyway. Silk would just freeze and blow away up here!”

“Know anyone we should gift these too?” Isabela held up the lacy lingerie. “Sometimes all it takes is the properly placed idea.”

Sera looked at the smalls for longer than the pirate had expected, mulling over strategies and consequences with an irritated expression that always seemed to accompany deep thought. There were clearly a number of options rattling around in her skull, but none seemed worth making it to her tongue.

“Nah.” Sera finally reached a verdict. “Best let them sort it out for themselves, yeah?”

“You’d know.” Isabela shrugged and shoved the fancy knickers back to their home in the rear of the drawer.

Escape was the easiest part of the plan. A quick flick of the lock at the door so no one would suspect their presence, then out the open window overlooking a battlement. The drop made Isabela’s knees ache and teeth rattle, but she rolled to her feet the same as coming down a mast. Sera was right behind her and they quickly moved to the shadows, wary of eyes that might have seen their exit.

“That’s what, nine now?” The blonde ran through names in her head as they made their way back to the main courtyard.

“Not enough.” Isabela wasn’t sure of the exact number, only that they would need more. “Should be twice that before it’s worth the attention.”

That was the challenge of planning a proper prank. Go too small and no one will notice. Too big and you have to get punished. Isabela had spent more than her fair share of nights in lockup because the Big girl couldn’t turn a blind eye to her and Hawke’s latest mischief. No loss in that, since she and Hawke were either in the same cell or at least near enough to scandalize the guards. But there was no fun in getting away with something sneaky if no one knew. Victories needed bragging rights, the seeds of a story that would spread bigger and better than fact.

“Right, so we’ve got the easy ones then.” Sera nodded thoughtfully. “Who next?”

Easy. Obviously. What could be easier than nicking knickers from the Inquisition’s best and brightest? Except that winning a game of Strip Grace with Dorian and Bull was nearly impossible when the two men were far more interested in each other than her. Horny bastards were shockingly good cheaters. And that Orlesian merchant woman would negotiate a brutal profit on her own orgasm.

Still, there were others they’d been able to simply steal from the laundry. And a handful were readily volunteered, like Hawke’s and Harding’s. Really worth getting to know better, that dwarf.

Isabela paused at the wall of the tavern, leaning against the stone and running through options in her mind. Getting Ambassador Montilyet’s small clothes shifted the winds. From here they’d all be much more challenging. But then—her eyes drifted across the patchy grass—wasn’t that the fun?

“Depends on what you’re up for.” Isabela’s lips curved at the edges, a slowly spreading excitement beginning to tingle in her fingertips. Sera’s confused face turned to follow her gaze, blowing out a huff of a curse.

“Sodding forget that.” The elf shook her head, watching the violent back and forth of Seeker Pentaghast’s training. “Never mind she’s the only person here I don’t want pissed at me besides Sister Shady Birds. She doesn’t even wear the things.”

“Suck Andraste.” A hint of peevish complaint bled into Isabela’s tone. “And here I thought she couldn’t be more tempting.”

“Yeah, she’s choice but don’t bother. Off limits.”  Sera tilted her head and squinted at the Nevarran warrior, trying to see whatever it was that everyone else got all their knickers twisted up about.

“So I’ve heard,” Isabela clucked her tongue in sad disgust.

Hawke and her damned rules. Well, rule; there was really only the one. But it was a right bitch: No Breaking Hearts. It had only taken one look at the Inquisitor’s face to know that bedding Seeker Sexy Pants would shatter her. Poor thing was barely holding the world together with spit and a grin as it was.

“Don’t know why,” Sera continued thoughtfully, talking more to herself than any audience. “Most of the cute Chantry birds aren’t all that shy. Know well more than they should about tangling curlies. But that one? S’never looked twice at anybody. Not besides Inky, anyway. And that’s usually just rolling her eyes or getting angry at shit.”

Isabela glanced down at Sera, suddenly aware that the elf had no hint of the real situation. Why would she? Most of Thedas lived life without a clue to the invisible threads and irresistible currents that governed the charmed, unfortunate few. Sera couldn’t feel the power that radiated off Cassandra, or the way it shuddered in the grip of will. She certainly couldn’t sense how Elyn’s scent shifted when the Seeker’s name was mentioned, or that the whole woman’s body seemed momentarily caught in a war like sailors holding lines in gale wind.

“Something tells me she gets angry a lot.” Isabela found an idle curiosity luring her across the clearing, Sera’s perplexed voice falling behind.

The dark haired Seeker had caught her attention as soon as she arrived at Skyhold. All buttoned—no, _armored­—_ up and impenetrable as a dreadnought. Come to think of it, she was rather like those Qunari death boats. Radiating all that raw threat and dogged determination to win. Not to mention the constant, subtly pervasive suggestion that she could fuck like a lit canon between your legs. Very Qunari indeed. It was the same sort of power that Isabela saw in Hawke, but gripped in an iron-fisted control unlike anything she’d ever seen before.

The closer she got, the more Isabela noticed other similarities. Pale skin, short black hair, scars worn like a taunt to all the eyes she’d rejected. But the differences were just as striking. Where Hawke swaggered, the Seeker strode. Instead of smirking the world’s threats aside, she scowled and snarled back. One was brazen laughter and a kick in the balls, the other a stony silence that would watch life squeezed out with her bare hands.

Plus, Hawke had a much nicer ass.

Isabela stopped beside the huge conifer tree at the edge of the informal training ring, safely beyond striking range. The Seeker didn’t even spend a glance in her direction, keeping the same rhythm and pattern to her strikes without any hitch. Warriors like this were trained to be aware of everything around them at all times, but only to focus on what mattered. Which meant—Isabela felt one brow creep upwards in surprise—she wasn’t simply being ignored, she’d been _dismissed._ That was almost certainly the first mistake.

“You know, I’m sure a gorgeous brute like you could fell that thing in two strokes.” Isabela’s voice teased along Cassandra’s edges, looking for cracks, “One if you were properly motivated.”

“Sparring is not about strength. It is about form, technique, reflex and timing,” the Seeker corrected her without looking up, each word as quick and blunt as her weapon’s blows. That clipped accent was rough and formal, nobility that had lost its luster but not polish.

“Mmm, I do like a woman devoted to her skills.” Isabela’s appreciative gaze traveled the fitted leather of Cassandra’s breeches. What was under the rest of all that armor? Solid muscle too thick to wrap your hands around? Or the sinewy sort of build that rippled like rigging?

“All Seekers have need of constant training.” Cassandra didn’t shrug. She couldn’t, not while preoccupied with executing another perfect attack. But it was in her voice nonetheless; a sliding, indifferent sound that managed to hear only the words Isabela spoke and nothing more.

“So I’ve noticed, all day every day. It must take tremendous stamina.” There was no mistaking this honeyed purr. It lived in pre-dawn light, tangled with spent bodies and tattered sheets.

Part of Isabela expected—even wanted, strangely—to hear the usual disgusted, accusatory insult from Aveline. That big, red-headed man crusher had such a lovely way of getting flustered and losing her temper all in one.

“It must also be rather boring to watch.” The Seeker wasn’t flustered. Or losing her temper. Her pulse was steady, her face calm beyond the grimace of a strike.

“I like to watch,” Isabela leaned into the chosen wind, recalling countless nights she’d witnessed debaucheries. Almost all of them ended the same way. Her lips tugged up at one corner, tongue playing along the back of her teeth, “But I just can’t resist joining in.”

“You don’t have the right equipment,” Cassandra objected without missing a beat, pragmatic as ever.

Spank the Maker! The woman was actually arguing with her while she was trying to flirt! The only other person that did that was Merrill. And she was much more adorable about it.

“So that’s the problem, is it? You don’t care for how I’m _equipped_.” The word popped on her lips, loud as a blown kiss.  She strolled lazily around the arc of Cassandra’s blade, waiting for a backswing. “Probably prefer crossing swords with the Inquisitor, don’t you?”

And _that_ was definitely a scoring point. A chip of wood splintered under the Seeker’s unchecked swing, the dummy now sporting torn padding and a gouge that would’ve ripped through a man’s shoulder. Now Cassandra looked at her. Properly. The glance was quick, but calculating; a reassessment.

“She is surprisingly skilled. If less practiced.” The Nevarran rolled her shoulders, chafing at something invisible before she adjusted her stance and resumed.

“Don’t tell me you’re letting her get rusty!” Isabela gaped with mock horror. “A woman like that needs some extra attention now and then. Help to keep things,” she paused, smirking when the other woman missed a breath, “Polished.”

“I’m sure the Inquisitor has all the help and attention she needs.” There was a lower note in Cassandra’s voice, rumbling with menace. The sound of a vicious hound that can’t snap because it’s been leashed.

“Plenty of volunteers, anyway,” Isabela breezily agreed, sweeping her gaze across the massive fortress filled with milling activity and noise. “She really draws a crowd, doesn’t she? All fawning and falling over themselves to catch her eye. They go positively jelly-legged for a smile.”

“Her charm is fortunate. We need all the allies we can find.” The Seeker’s tongue had a certain harshness, a rasp that turned charm and fortune into hateful things.

Her eyes and face stayed unreadable, thoughts visible only in the swipe and thrust of that blade losing patience. Less control, more savage.  Isabela’s fingers twitched with old, practiced skills; ready to dance across the most sensitive wires of a deadly trap.

“Lucky, isn’t it? Finding a woman that everyone loves. Nobles, servants.” She could feel winding gears, “Men, women.” The pluck of taut springs, “Omegas, betas.” Unconsciously, Isabela’s tongue darted across her lips just before touching on the trigger, “Alphas.”

“And why not?” Cassandra demanded, voice shaking with the effort of holding control, the same iron as her armor. “The Inquisitor is a savior and source of hope. They are right to admire her, idolize her even!”

“She’s a woman,” Isabela corrected, amused that anyone could deceive themselves otherwise. “And when I knew her it definitely wasn’t prayer that had me on my knees.”

A deafening crack echoed off every stone and wall in the fortress, ricocheting thunder reaching up towards the sky. This time when the blade hit the dummy it snapped off at the handle, leaving the metal lodged halfway through wood and a broken pommel clenched tight in Cassandra’s fist. The Seeker’s pulse was racing, her jaw clenched even tighter than her hands.

Isabela braced herself, ready for the attack when Cassandra turned towards her. Rage had electrified her gaze, nearly as deadly as a blow of magic ready to tear her to shreds. Yet underneath that threat of pain was an anguish all its own. A bedlam of shame and guilt tortured the Seeker’s eyes for a passing heartbeat before vanishing all at once, sucked back so suddenly it was dizzying.

“That is enough for today.” The Seeker pronounced her verdict in heavy words, each one a door slammed and locking. She flung the broken pommel aside, striding away with the same militant speed and precision that kept her bearing proud and untouchable.

Funny thing about locks and armor. Isabela studied the retreating figure that was so clearly _not_ fleeing. The bigger and stronger they were, the more everyone knew you had something to hide.

“Told you, didn’t I?” Sera sidled up, glancing nervously after the departing Seeker and keeping her voice low just in case. “That one’s married to the Maker.”

“Maybe so.” Isabela tilted her head to one side, half of a nod that would never agree. “But married isn’t the same thing as mated.”

-        -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -        -        -           -           -           -           -           -           -           -

There was a tell in the way the muscles of Hawke’s throat tensed. A hitch in her breath that warned Isabela when she was about to—

“Heard you’ve been getting into trouble without me.” The words rushed and dragged in the wrong places, fighting across panting lips.

A noncommittal hum rolled on Isabela’s tongue, tickled the stiff peak caught between her teeth while her fingers gently circled its twin.  Hawke only tried to talk as a distraction. When she was getting too worked up too fast.  The way she squirmed beneath Isabela’s mouth promised as much, push and pull at war in her grip on long hair. Trying to press deeper into the warm heat of Isabela’s lips, the raspy licks and soft bites that made her shudder and cling tight.

A glint of fang was even brighter framed by Isabela’s flushed lips, dark and plump from kissing but perfect in a smile. A gorgeous bloom of color had swept across all of Hawke’s chest, up her throat where mottled love bites were beginning to darken. The whole of her face was heated, mouth parted over the small, sharp gasps and shaking sighs that followed every brush and breeze of her lover’s devotions. Dark lips released Hawke’s breast with an echoing pop, lewd and wet.

Perfect. Isabela smirked down at the other woman; basking in her handiwork until the strained crease between Hawke’s brows softened, thick eyelashes fluttering open. A clench of the fingers tangled in the roots of her hair was the beginning of a question and Isabela quickly rose to steal it off Hawke’s lips in a kiss.

“Getting jealous, sweet thing?” The teasing purr rolled languidly between their mouths, passing across the brush of tongues before she suddenly pinched down on both the tender peaks in her fingers.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Hawke gasped, falling back from the kiss when a jolt of heat went straight to her core.

The tight bud of her neglected nipple was stiff between Isabela’s lips and she greedily sucked it in, lavishing attentions that filled the air with tiny, desperate sounds of need. The feel of breasts molding so softly in her hands blended seamlessly into the flow of Hawke’s body writhing beneath her; taut muscle and supple curves begging in the same urgent rhythms.

Strong thighs clenched her waist, arching to press her heat tight against Isabela’s belly. She could feel Hawke’s wetness paint her skin; the scent of it coated her tongue, made her mouth water. Suck Andraste, they could finish just like this. Isabela moaned into Hawke’s suckled breast, awash with the taste of salt and copper and clean. One hand clawed at the bedsheets, flailing for an anchor, dragging herself deeper and closer to the confession of her lover on the brink.

“Don’t . . .sodding . . . don’t.” Isabela barely recognized the rasped command was her own voice.

“Isabela,” Hawke’s hissed reply was harsh and pleading, a complaint when the pirate’s mouth abandoned her ravished breasts. The full shape of that name was more prayer and curse than any other word either of them knew to cross her lips.

“Wait, Hawke,” Isabela demanded, sudden want hollowing her belly and words.

Sinuous muscles trembled and flexed beneath the sailor’s lips, open-mouthed kisses blazing an impatient trail down the line of Hawke’s stomach. The stone floor was rough and cold under her knees, something distant and absent happening to someone else because all that Isabela felt was the fist in her gut that made her reach forward.

Greedy hands quickly had their fill of Hawke’s skin, tugging her closer, urging her legs to make space. The long ropes of muscle in her thighs shuddered and jumped at the feel of Isabela’s mouth, tried to clench tight against the grip holding her open.  Hands that wrestled weapons and helms held Hawke in place, thumbs and fingers mingling mindless patterns to tug her senses every direction before a warm touch caressed her swollen folds.

Slippery heat deluged Isabela’s senses the moment she pressed her mouth to Hawke’s sex, wringing twin groans from them both. Her tongue twisted and lapped at slick flesh, playing in the wetness that spilled onto her lips as freely as the notes that broke between Hawke’s labored breath. 

One long leg slid over Isabela’s shoulder, heel digging into her back to echo the plea in fingers that tugged at her hair. Hawke’s need was swiftly becoming her own, a dull throb between her thighs that pulsed and ached in time with the curls and plunge of her tongue into the source of a pleasure that tasted like the sea. Isabela relished the way that lust filled her mouth, plundered every drop she could before artfully lashing at all the sensitive places that coaxed more. She wanted— _needed_ —Hawke to come.

She was so, so close. Isabela’s eyes devoured the length of Hawke’s sprawled body, entranced by the ebb and flow of a tide traveling higher and higher. The shiver and clench of her belly, the sway of her breasts, head twisted and now tossing back like the most heavenly, erotic figurehead to grace a prow.

“I-Isabela—Maker!— _please_ , Bela,” Hawke gasped, hips bucking brutally at the slightest brush against her clit. The hand that wasn’t tying itself into a knot in Isabela’s hair fumbled across the sheets, searching blind.

There was a particular note in that plea. A sound that plucked at Isabela’s instincts so that even lost in the feel of Hawke trembling against her mouth she reached forward, letting herself be found.  Their hands brushed and quickly tangled, the squeeze of fingers as much permission as relief.

Hawke’s inner muscles fluttered and clenched around her tongue, a sudden, choked note caught and held as tight as their fingers. Fragrant release drenched Isabela’s lips until it smeared between chin and thighs, her hungry moan earning even more. Hawke melted back into the sheets, her entire body a gorgeous confession of everything shameless and perfect.

Ragged breath parted her lips but Isabela still saw a familiar trace of smile teasing at the edges. Tiny flutters of her lashes followed the luxury of Isabela’s tongue lapping up her spent pleasure, mouth spreading into a contented grin when the pirate finally slid back up onto the bed to share her lover’s afterglow.

They coiled together into a familiar, tangling braid. Spent passions at least briefly lent languorous ease to the explorations of sated lips and fingers.

“Hawke,” Isabela’s playful whisper raised goosebumps down the other woman’s skin. “Do you want me to stay out of trouble?”

“Shit no,” Hawke’s laugh was breathless and coarse as a polishing stone but real. Her eyes were dazed, trained on the only thing that mattered. She brushed an errant strand of thick hair from Isabela’s face. “Neither of us can ever do that, Bela. We _are_ trouble.”

“That’s what I thought.” Isabela felt a smile tug across her lips before leaning in to capture a kiss. The sort of soft, slow caresses that marked either pause or finish. She was only certain of which it was when she felt Hawke’s grip tighten and roll them across the bed.

“I think it’s my turn to get into trouble now,” Hawke grinned down at Isabela once she was pinned, immune to the groan of her terrible joke.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that last scene was entirely gratuitous. But then, the whole story kind of is! Isabela is at Skyhold to have fun and I'm not one to deny her. 
> 
> Please feel free to share your thoughts and comments, particularly where character interactions and dialogue are involved since making sure that everyone sounds authentic is important to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure yet if this will be a one-shot or more. Playing with these two at Skyhold provides a lot of exciting chances for fun. A/B/O even more. Comments, critiques and ideas are all welcome!


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